


Gull

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Collars, Dominance, Ficlet, M/M, Submission
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-19
Updated: 2015-12-19
Packaged: 2018-05-07 13:38:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5458403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Voronwë makes reparations to Elemmakil for guiding a mortal to Gondolin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gull

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Silmarillion or The Unfinished Tales or any of their contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

It’s late when the knock comes, but Elemmakil is awake. He often delays his rest until he can see the stars—he used to look out from his window, when not down in the darkness of the gates, and wonder if a certain other elf was watching the same view. Now the practice seems silly, the need to look _up_ gone, but that change is only recent and some habits are slow to break. Still fully dressed but gathering his uncombed hair into a bundle to tie, Elemmakil answers his door. 

A gentle smile awaits him on the other site. Voronwë’s sea-grey eyes are unchanged, shining just as bright as Elemmakil remembers. His breath nearly catches in his throat, heart swelling as it first did when Voronwë cast back his cloak and revealed his familiar face. It was hard, then, when Elemmakil still had duties to attend to. Here, in a lull between shifts and the privacy of his quarters, he can return the simple smile: he _missed_ this.

Voronwë asks, “May I come in?” His voice is polite but sure. Elemmakil, of course, steps aside, ushering his friend in. He closes the door after and steps back, using some effort, as usual, not to eye the slender form that’s stepped back into his life as though out of a dream. 

As calmly as he can manage, he asks, “To what do I owe this pleasure?” Voronwë’s eyes flicker at the last word. It’s _always_ a pleasure. Or it always was, many years ago.

Dipping his dark head tamely, black hair slipping silkily down his shoulders, Voronwë murmurs, “I come to submit myself for punishment.”

Elemmakil repeats dully, “Punishment?” His brow rises, though his body stirs far more than the simple gesture. Voronwë’s eyes slide back to Elemmakil, but his posture remains submissive.

“For showing a mortal the gates,” he smoothly explains, as though this is all known law. Elemmakil nearly snorts.

“You had good reason for it, it seems.” Far beyond what Elemmakil could pass judgment on. Voronwë flicks a hand aside as though that’s nothing, as though the Valar’s words themselves could not justify the ease with which he so boldly returned. 

“Nonetheless, I caused you a grievance, and I should pay.” Then, with a small quirk of his plush lips, he asks, “Or do you no longer enjoy such things?”

Elemmakil releases a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding and admits, “I very much do, although I have desired to try them with no one since your parting.” Which might give more away than he should say, but it’s true. The greater grievance was Voronwë’s departure, not his return. Elemmakil focuses to ask, “What should I do to you now?”

Voronwë shrugs his frail shoulders and offers, “Tie me. Bind me, claim me, mark me if you wish. Whatever you should like and deem appropriate for my crimes.”

Elemmakil has to bite the inside of his lip to stifle his reaction. Voronwë’s as alluring as ever, as lovely, acquiescent, as tempting. He looks demurely up through his lashes, but the unspoken interest underneath is thick in the air, and Elemmakil has to pause just to savour this delight. 

Then he slips his hand forward into Voronwë’s, tightens around his thin fingers, and gives him a little tug to pull him deeper. Elemmakil turns to guide Voronwë back, through the open living space and past the sectioned-off bathing chamber to the bedroom in the back. At first, he thinks to delay this, but once his feet are moving, he can’t stop; he brings Voronwë straight to his bed and turns to take his seat. Voronwë he tugs by the sleeve, and Voronwë melts easily to the floor, kneeling between Elemmakil’s legs as though he belongs there.

Perhaps now he belongs _at sea_ , which he’s spoken of in reverence. But if he goes again, Elemmakil would hope to follow. 

The bottom drawer in Elemmakil’s nightstand hasn’t been opened for many years. He breaks that now and fishes through the many bindings, each brush against a different strip bringing back a swell of memories, of different stories and experiments and games, from chasing each other with laughter to sneaking about in the dark, whispered pleas and growled demands. For now, he takes only the collar, draws it out, like something wrought for a beast of four legs. Voronwë helpfully gathers his dark hair over one shoulder so Elemmakil can wrap it around his slender neck, the metal clasp in the front engraved with Elemmakil’s mark. A slight shiver runs through Voronwë’s frame when it closes; Elemmakil feels the same. He missed this sight. 

He missed the sound of Voronwë’s sultry voice, the feel of his soft skin, the taste of his wet lips, the smell of his sweat after a night at play. Elemmakil shatters their lie, bending forward to place a tender kiss against Voronwë’s forehead, nothing for a prisoner. When they part, Voronwë’s eyes are closed, and he begs quietly, “ _Punish_ me.”

Elemmakil does his best to oblige. He bids, “Stand,” and watches the subtle tremor as Voronwë obeys. He rises up, only for Elemmakil to follow, so close that their feet are touching. Voronwë bows his pretty face, and Elemmakil reaches for the sash that binds his robes. He returned in trousers and a tunic, and Elemmakil wears something similar for his guard’s duties, but now Voronwë is a peaceful civilian in a silken slip, so easily for Elemmakil to peel away. The sash comes easily loose in his hands, and he thinks of using it to bind Voronwë’s wrists but decides _later_ ; he’ll build this. Savour it, cherish it. Make it more than the quick romp they last spared before Voronwë was sent away. He drops the sash aside and parts the sea-blue fabric of Voronwë’s robes, pleased to find nothing underneath. He can’t help a small smirk—he should’ve known. There’s a flicker of amusement in Voronwë’s eyes—pleasure that Elemmakil is clearly pleased—but he keeps his features soft. Elemmakil gently pushes the robes back over Voronwë’s curved shoulders, and the creamy material slithers right to the floor. 

It leaves Voronwë bare before him, wearing nothing but his collar. The sight is _beautiful_. For a moment, all Elemmakil can do is drink it in. Then he wraps his arms slowly around Voronwë’s waist, palms pressing hard down his sides, before rising to his collar to yank him forward by. Voronwë grunts but is otherwise still. 

“You did cause me much grief,” Elemmakil purrs, right against Voronwë’s perfect lips. “In more ways than one.... Perhaps a few days away from your new master’s side, spent instead at my feet, will earn you forgiveness.” Elemmakil has, after all, three nights left before he returns to the gate for watch, and he can think of no better way to spend it.

Voronwë murmurs, “Tuor is not my master.” He dons a leisured smile to sigh, “But I will never rise from your floor again, if you so wish it.” 

It’s certainly tempting. Their games have never lasted so long. Elemmakil will be content with one night, and the promise of Voronwë’s warm arms to curl into in the morning. It takes a great deal of effort not to connect their mouths now, but Elemmakil knows that once he starts down that path, he won’t be able to leave. So he only kisses Voronwë’s cheek and drawls, “First, you will make me supper.”

Voronwë lifts a brow. He looks, perhaps, a little disappointment; of course he would’ve assumed that his punishment would be sexual. Elemmakil attempts to remain firm. Voronwë nods in acceptance and steps free to go. 

He only makes it two paces before Elemmakil breaks, hand darting out to take a fistful of Voronwë’s hair. Voronwë cries out, and Elemmakil jerks his head back by it, delighting in the erotic gasp it earns him. Then Elemmakil flattens into Voronwë’s naked back, hissing into his ear, “Then I will lick it from your chest, and you will warm my bed.”

Voronwë bites his lip, failing to stifle a little moan. Elemmakil releases his hold, and Voronwë is free to leave, while Elemmakil watches his tight rear deliberately sway too much. Too soon, Elemmakil follows.


End file.
